


Sea Change

by Ever-so-reylo (Ever_So_Reylo)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Dominant Kylo Ren, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Submissive Rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14393610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ever_So_Reylo/pseuds/Ever-so-reylo
Summary: Kylo has made peace with what he is, and yet he has to wonder what it says of him, that he has to take his only equal and reduce her to this quivering mess about once a week. That he can only find the control he craves by robbing Rey of hers.They are surprisingly compatible, Rey and Kylo.





	Sea Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamsdescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsdescent/gifts).



> For Dreamsdescent: happy (belated) birthday, my friend. Have this humble pile of garbage that I wrote with love ♡♡♡ 
> 
> Note: I know nothing about BDSM, and this is probably a highly inaccurate portrayal of it, but I had lots of fun researching it through my university Wi-Fi ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°).

 

 

The first time is mere weeks after they establish the New Order, and by now Kylo knows the in and outs of her body, has memorized the trail of freckles underneath her right rib cage and that little gasp she makes when he finally comes to a full seat inside her. She moves gracefully on top of him, and it’s been years since he’s first seen her but he still wonders how it is possible, that something this flawless came to him from across the galaxy, from the cluttered sands of Jakku.

The words are out of Kylo's mouth before he is aware that they were ever in his head. “Don’t come.”

Rey stills. Plants her hands on his chest, breath catching. The look she gives him is confused—she is running this show, isn’t she?

“What?” Her eyes are glossy, because she is so close. He can feel it, how tight she’s getting around him. His balls are drawn up tight and he could just arch up and let himself go, empty into her, and that would feel _amazing_ , as satisfying as it always is. Phenomenal.

“Don’t come. Until I say.”

He half expects her to laugh dawn at him, maybe even a flat out no. Instead:

“I—Can I still move?”

She is looking at him for direction, her voice soft and breathless, and Kylo didn’t think it physiologically possible, but he feels himself get exponentially harder.

“Yes. Slowly.”

He lets his hands slide to her hips and begins to guide her the way _he_ wants.

Rey follows his lead, head tipping back as her lips part.

 

…

  

It seems as though Kylo knew this about himself all along—before becoming a Padawan, before the Order, before Rey. He never quite dwelled on it—with Snoke sifting through his mind at will and without forewarning, it simply didn’t seem wise to allow himself to linger on such compromising fantasies. Nevertheless, there were times he couldn’t help himself, and he _knew_.

Then Rey reached for him across that fire and he told himself, _It doesn’t matter_. _I don’t need_ that _, if I can have her_.

He never thought he could have both.

 

…

 

Pinning her hands above her head—it means nothing.

Because, reasons. First and foremost, the fact that she could easily summon the Force and dislodge him with the flicker of a thought, especially considering how out of his mind and distracted Kylo becomes when she allows him inside her body.

Pinning her hands above her head means nothing, but it’s _something_ , and Rey lets him so Kylo does it, burying his face into her throat and spinning dark, elaborate fantasies into his head—her, it's always _her_ at the center, but defenseless, overtaken, doing as she’s told.

As _he_ tells her.

Rey is injured one day, after training with one of his Knights, and Kylo doesn’t coddle her—she would castrate him—but when he notices the crimson staining the side of her tunic and the long gash on her arm his hands start trembling, and they don’t stop until the medic droid patching her up assures him that as far as training injuries go, this is very minor.

“I’m fine. You didn’t need to be there for that,” Rey tells him as they are walking to a meeting with the Council, looking half annoyed and half amused.

“I know. I was just hiding from Hux,” he half lies.

She giggles and leans into his side, lips briefly brushing against his tunic.

That night he fucks her slowly, wondering if he should even be fucking her to begin with. _Probably not_ , he tells himself as he licks her raw and pink, until her thighs tremble and she moans 'please' in his favorite tone. _Recovery and such_ , he continues as he comes up and aligns himself with her cunt, sinking inside to his balls, as inexorable as a rock thrown into the oceans of Kamino.

The least he can do is be gentle. He is deep already, but he should try not to go any deeper. And be slow, as slow as he can bear, but also finish quickly. Kiss her sweetly, and let her rest, and ask her if she is all right—

When he looks down at Rey her eyes are open, and her hands lay palm up above her head. An offer that he can hardly fail to acknowledge.

His fingers close around her wrists and hold them down, and as he thrusts harder he feels relief flow through their bond.

 

…

 

In the hours, the days after the destruction of Starkiller Base he used to think of their first meeting on Takodana, wistfully and often. Replay snippets of those few precious moments, memories of having Rey truly at his mercy, her mind soft and open to his, and body helpless and limp in his arms.

But that was _before_. Before she was able to find it within herself to connect with the Force, before she was his equal and at times his better. _After_ , the picture of her pliant in his arms was substituted by another, a million times more powerful—Snoke’s throne room and Rey on her knees in front him, fear and hope pushing through their link and flooding his mind.

“Ben,” she had said. “Please.”

It was all he could think of. For years, until he saw her again when the Order and the Resistance began their negotiations, until the treaty, until he finally had her for himself in flesh and blood.

It was always her.

 

…

 

She hands him his ass daily, in the training court. The opposite is also true, of course, but a grown man pinned to the floor by someone who is half his size and ten years younger apparently makes for a more compelling show. Several people come sit on the stands to observe them: first the Knights, then the higher ranking officials in the new armed forces, and then even some of the diplomats working at headquarters. To varying degrees, they all seem to root for Rey—yes, even the Knights—and Kylo chooses not to notice, when he sees bet credits exchange hands, because otherwise he would also have to pretend to care, or be outraged by it, or something equally dramatic.

They head together to the empty shower room, afterwards, and she chatters about forms and stretching exercises and why can’t she ever get the pivot right after that first dive? Maybe she’s just mixing up moves, too many new techniques learned at once, should she just go back to practicing the basics? Does that sound like a good plan?

“Ben?”

It’s hard to pay attention to her words when she’s undressing in front of him like that, fresh sweat making her skin glisten. Her hair is loose, and much longer now than it used to be, one strand sticking to her breast and covering half of a red nipple.

Kylo would like to lick her. Everywhere.

“Ben.”

She knows, of course. Their minds are connected, and even if they weren’t there is likely no mistaking the way he’s looking at her. She is so beautiful. It is a problem, really, always has been.

“What—”

It’s less than three steps between the two of them, and he covers them with no real plan except that—he wasn’t touching her before and now he is, and it makes things right somehow. Except that it’s not enough, and he needs _more_ , so he pushes her backwards until he has her pinned against the wall behind her.

“Ben—”

He turns her around, a combination of the Force and his own strength, until her arms are trapped between her body and the wall. He is dressed head to toe, and she is as naked as she always was in his filthiest dreams of her, and before Rey Kylo never, _never_ used to get turned on. Not so much. Not this way.

His hand slides down to the opening of his pants, and she must hear it, the sound of them being undone, because she panics and whispers, “We can’t—”

“Quiet.”

She stills.

She is exquisite. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock and rubs it back and forth along the cleft of her ass, and relishes the thought that he could just—push inside, sink in, and she would do nothing about it. She would let him. Then his other hand slides around to her front, down her pubic bone, and he dips his fingers inside, two of them until the second knuckle, pushing in and out and in again. He finds her sticky and wet and tight, and her moan, it’s the loveliest sound he has ever heard.

“I could fuck you very nicely, now.”

It’s a threat and she is giving in to it, arching into his fingers and his chest, pleasure and hope and fear pulsating through the bond.

“Please.“

 

…

 

He is in charge of the armed forces—though now, in this odd post Alliance era, they call them the Defensive Branch.

Rey takes over everything else. She brings in several former Resistance members, who seem to have many opinions on how to make this or that better and more efficient. Together, they restructure the entirety of what is left of the administration of the Order, and introduce changes to the Stormtrooper program that make Hux throw a million fits.

Rey takes the job seriously. She is always consulting with one person or another, and she seems to be reading all the time, these days, manuals and history books and reports, to the point that Kylo constantly finds holopads under his or her pillow when he turns in the middle of the night. He supposes he should be concerned or jealous—whether of Rey’s aptitude for leadership or of the demands leadership makes upon her time, he is not sure— but he can only watch her with pleasure as she puts his generals in place with a look or a dry remark.

He stores the memories for later, for when he’ll twist her arm behind her back as he fucks into her from behind. 

It’s hard to remember, when he catches her bent over maps of trade routes and profit charts, why he desired the control of the Galaxy so intensely and for so long. Perhaps it’s because wanting _something_ always seemed significantly less dangerous than wanting _someone_. Kylo still thinks this true, but there is nothing to be done about it, now.

 

…

 

They’ve come a long way since the first time—Rey with only the sketchiest theoretical notion of what to do, and Kylo unable to control himself for more than a handful of seconds. By now Rey knows how to keep her throat open, and how to adjust the suction to the head and the pressure at the base, and to never, ever stop unless he explicitly tells her to. She knows that he likes her hair down, and eye contact, and the way she wets her lips with her tongue.

He feels closer to the Force when she is like this, on her knees in front of him. He guides her with his hands, a grip tightening here, hair lightly pulled there. As he lets her work on him, shallow and then deep, the head of his cock swells between the perfect O of her lips, the vibrations from her groans driving him out of his mind and making him say ludicrous, obvious things.

_Suck it. Open wider. Make me come._

Her body begins rocking back and forth after a while, her thighs rubbing against each other—but she knows better than to slip a hand between them and touch herself. Rey’s Force _feels_ better, when he doesn’t let her come. Juicier. Like a peach that has finally ripened.

Towards the end, when his balls begins to tense, he slows her down. And then he makes her go even slower as he feels that dangerous warmth at the base of his spine.

“Open up,” he tells her when he can’t bear it anymore. She pulls back and he rests his cock on her lower lip, and then he tries not to close his eyes as he spills on her tongue until he’s empty. “Keep your mouth open. Show me.”

She does as she’s told, and looking at her—it _ruins_ him. It’s like coming again, as if a part of him too long imprisoned were finally expanding, taking its rightful residence inside his body.

“You can swallow, now.”

He studies with great pleasure the way her throat works and then leans forward, the low-level noise that always clutters his head quieted for once. He kisses her, first on the forehead, softly, and then sucking hungrily on those bee-stung red lips as she squirms to relieve the pressure in her cunt.

“Good girl.” He can feel it through the bond, how her heart jumps at the praise. “What do you say?”

She is lovely. So lovely. He had thought her lovely before, from the very first, but he had no idea. Kylo has made peace with what he is, and yet he has to wonder what it says of him, that he has to take his only equal and reduce her to this quivering mess about once a week. That he can only find the control he craves by robbing Rey of hers.

Her forehead leans on his thigh, and her voice is muffled into his skin. “Thank you.”

 

…

 

“It's not safe.”

“Pfft.”

“You're not going.”

“Mmm. Sure. Do you think I should bring a thermal suit?”

“No.”

“Not that cold, right?”

“No—you’re not going.”

“Why?”

Back to the beginning. “It’s not safe.”

“Ben, there have been three poisoning attempts, one coup—okay, that wasn’t very well thought through, but still—and that weird sniper the other day. Being away from here is probably _safer_ for me.”

He wishes he had a cogent answer to that, racks his brain for one—and comes up empty handed. He just stands there, then, hands clenched, wishing he could keep her at his side every second of every day.

“I’m not asking for your permission.” Her voice is soft with a core of steel.

“That’s convenient, since I have no intention of giving it to you.” He doesn’t quite manage to keep the moodiness from his tone, and she smiles.

“I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

That is impossible, of course. But no matter.

He lifts his hand to the flare of her hip and feels through her tunic, the small chain he locked there—just a little too tight for her waist, cutting into the flesh to remind her to whom she belongs.

“Be careful,” he orders.

 

…

 

She stares suspiciously at the quarter-full glass.

“What will it do?”

“Temporarily disconnect you from the Force.” For the most part. She’ll still have some advantage over non-sensitives. Though, of course, none whatsoever over Kylo.

Her expression is unreadable. She presses her lips together and he thinks that he can hear the cogs churning in her beautiful, stubborn head.

“Why?” she asks, but she doesn’t really mean it. She knows why, and he knows why, and she’s just trying to buy time, so he doesn’t bother answering her and she lowers her eyes.

“What if I don’t drink it?”

He shrugs, trying not to appear disappointed. He is _not_ disappointed in her. “Then you don’t.”

This truce between the Order and the Resistance, it relies on the two of them being equals, and came about when it became obvious neither would out-Force the other. That they happen to be in love is something that no one expected—not on his side, and definitely not hers. As of the present, it is unclear who knows about what they are to each other behind closed door. An open secret of sorts.

“Seems like you wouldn’t care much, if I didn’t.”

“Does it?”

Fact is, he is well aware of what he’s asking. Of how defenseless it would make her. Even as highly trained as she is, without the Force she has no hope against him.

“What if I do drink it?”

Just at the thought, Kylo can feel his pulse speed and cock stiffen. He shrugs, again, in an effort to cover it. He can only have picked up the gesture from her. “It’s up to me, what I do with you.”

Rey bites softly into her lower lip as she stares at the content of the glass for what feels like hours. Then she takes one step into Kylo and drinks it in one shot.

  

…

 

He is sitting in front of the viewport, reading a report he should have finished two days earlier, when she comes in.

He has been feeling her exhaustion through their bond, the beginning of a headache beating at her temples. She is not meant for this life, his little scavenger, for the endless politics and the dragging meetings and the lack of pragmatism. Good at it, but not meant for it. Neither is Kylo, but at least he is leading the military section. At least he is still a warrior.

“Rey.”

 _Ben_. She doesn’t say it. Just thinks it through the bond and goes to stand by the broad viewport, palms pressed against the window as if reaching for the stars. Then, without taking her eyes off the lights of the Western Reaches, she takes her hair down and begins to pull off her clothes—the tunic, the pants, the armbands. Every stitch until there is no more to cover her skin, until he can see the scars that Jakku, and the Force Wars, and Kylo himself have inflicted on her.

Then she turns and walks to where he is sitting, sinking on her knees before him, head in his lap. She stays there for a long time, contentment pouring through them both as Kylo strokes her hair.

He is the leader of the Galaxy, and yet he has never known such power.

 

 

 

 


End file.
